


Like a King of Old

by starfleetdicks



Series: Merlin Season Five Drabbles [3]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, BBC is a destroyer of souls, Canonical Character Death, Episode Related, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Male Friendship, Tribute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-17
Updated: 2012-11-17
Packaged: 2017-11-18 20:52:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/565177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starfleetdicks/pseuds/starfleetdicks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leon takes time to remember and grieve. </p>
<p>
  <i>For Elyan.</i>
</p>
<p>A season five episode six drabble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like a King of Old

Leon strokes the pommel of his sword and stares quietly into the flickering embers of the dying fire. The camp is quiet and his watch has been uneventful.

The king sleeps just to the left of him, mumbling and turning like clockwork every few minutes. Next to Arthur, Merlin is unmoving but Leon can faintly hear his breathing. Percival has his back pressed to one of the logs they drug to the fire for seating. Leon recognizes the position for what it is, paranoia and preparedness. Gwaine is sprawled close to the fire, blanket migrating further and further away.

And across the fire from Leon, there is only emptiness. Like the round table back in Camelot, here they are also one man short.

The air is warmer here than the crisp chill of Camelot, where there is snow decorating the grounds. Leon keeps the fire going to ward off the wolves, discourage the insects, and to chase the chill of battle from his bones. Only in the dead of night will he admit to himself that it also chases away his nerves and his sadness. It's gentle crackling is familiar and comforting, reminiscent of home, beautiful Camelot and his household before that.

As a young boy, Leon had spent many summers playing with the two young children who belonged to his mother’s maid. Guinevere was quiet and beautiful; she tried her best to keep Leon and her brother out of trouble. It usually did not work. Elyan never called her by her full name. Only Leon did. Even her own mother had switched to the nickname when Elyan had picked it up. Leon didn't tell anyone but he much preferred the longer name. It sounded regal and she had the face of a queen.

Leon might of had the smallest crush on her. No one knew about that and no one would.

Elyan was wilder back then, full of rambunctious spirit. Leon was not much older than Guinevere and Elyan, but it was enough. And when Elyan's playing got them in trouble, Leon took the brunt of the storm and accepted his role as eldest and leader though he seemed more made for following since Guinevere always had her way.

He had always loved Elyan as well, trusted him like a brother. The young boy had often convinced them into games that should not have been played but never into danger. Even as a child, he was noble and loyal. Leon had known early that he would give his life for these siblings.

There was sadness, among other things, when they left his household. The move to Camelot was the best for them. Their father could take over the work of the late blacksmith, a good and steady job.

Leon could not leave for Camelot until he was of age to train under Uther’s knights. But even finally in the same town as Guinevere and Elyan, he did not visit them. It was improper, he was told, and the knights kept him battered and bruised. There was no time and, when there was a little time, he spent it limping to Gaius for salve and sage words. 

He stayed busy for many years between knighthood, mourning, and tending the land his father had left him. And so still he did not visit when he had heard word of Elyan leaving his home in the lower town, disappearing suddenly in the night. He did not visit Guinevere to give her comfort because there were campaigns to go on, knights to captain, and sword skills to teach the prince who was quickly living up to his royal blood.

And when Guinevere began working in the castle as Morgana’s maid, Leon still did not visit her. He was gone much of the time from Camelot and when he was home, he was firmly under Uther or Arthur’s hands, his worth tested.

It took the death of Guinevere’s father to bring them together once more. Leon found her one quiet afternoon a few days after the tragedy curled up on the stairs, her head in her hands.

Leon pokes at the fire as the flames begin to dwindle, standing and taking wood from the makeshift pile to throw on. He settles on his bedroll, back to the rekindled fire, and sits staring out into the woods and not into the empty spot on the other side of the camp.

He remembers the way he gently held Guinevere until she could cry no more and tries to forget his own tears. He remembers the prickle of shame he felt as she held him tighter for comfort, for having waited so long to reach out to her. But most of all, he vividly recalls the forgiveness in her eyes and the hesitant way she skimmed her fingertips over his cheek and thanked him.

There had been no more excuses. Leon took time to see Guinevere, to keep her from getting lonely. Though she wasn’t exactly lonely, what with Arthur and Merlin trailing puppy-eyed after her.

Leon had returned from campaign one day to harrowing tales of kidnapping and daring battles, a beaming Guinevere, and a fully grown Elyan. The reunion was grand, the mead in full supply, and the stories welcome. Leon had spent hours with just the two of them, laughing over recounted battles, shying away from compliments on his knighthood, and insinuating soft touches to prove Elyan was truly home. It was like something of a dream come true to relive pieces of his childhood as if nothing had changed. No one asked Leon why he had shied away from coming to see them as they grew older in Camelot and in turn he did not ask that of them either. Nor did he ask why Elyan left or returned.

He had just been thankful.

Leon stands just as the first pinpricks of sunlight begin to pierce the sky and does not wake the camp. He turns instead to the wood, walking to the stream they were to follow home, and kneels by the water, stacking flat pebbles into a pyramid shape on the shoreline.

He does not stop when his vision blurs or when he sucks down shaky breaths or when he reasons that there is no need to do this. There is a marked grave in Camelot.

He does it for himself: repentance for not taking time when he had it to share with Elyan, something ritual, and a way to ease the pain. The stack is solemn and earthy. He takes a worry stone to turn over in his hands. It reminds him of Elyan somehow.

Leon carries Elyan with him, as all the men do in different ways, and some days are harder than others for the memories. And those days, he watches endlessly: the arrow sailing high, arching elegantly, taking Elyan away like a king of old.

Leon is not too proud to cry.


End file.
